


The Darkness is Light; The Stillness is Dancing

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Family, Family Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 01:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a piece I've wanted to include in something forever and it kept not fitting anything quite properly. So I have just up and written it for its own sake. It's about how beautiful men are dancing, and how sweet love is, and about family, and friendship, and dancing under the sky. That's all. I put together an impossible party at Mummy and Father Holmes' place just so there could be men dancing together, beautiful in the dusk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Darkness is Light; The Stillness is Dancing

The Darkness is Light; The Stillness is Dancing

Mummy insisted on it. Father thought better of it but declined to ruin his wife’s event. Sherlock was secretly looking forward to it, Mycroft whinged about it, Mary and John secretly dreaded it—the more so when Janine overheard the party was happening, and invited herself along. Molly was curious about it, Mrs. Hudson was in a complete tizzy about it—and Lestrade figured he was at least going to get a decent meal and some passable beer, and a chance to observe Holmeses in their natural habitat.

“It will only rain, you know,” Mycroft huffed even as he found himself put to work in his mother’s kitchen making egg salad for finger sandwiches. “I don’t care if it’s midsummer. It will rain. You know it will.”

“Mikey, stop fussing. I swear, if you thought you could you’d actually order it to rain just to spite me,” Mummy huffed right back.

“Mycroft, Mummy. It’s Mycroft.”

“I know. I was there for the christening,” Mummy shot back, “I remember every minute, including you spitting up on the vicar.”

“No doubt because you called me ‘Mikey.’” 

“Oh, give over, Mike—“

“Mycroft.”

“ _Mike._ I brought you into this world, and I can take you back out of it, you know,” she said, glowering. “Such a fusspot you’ve grown up to be.”

“I know. I’d tell you that you need to join the line of people who want a word with my mother, but…” he sniffed. “It’s just iterative meta-redundancy to you, I’m sure. And my name’s Mycroft regardless.”

“Could be worse,” Lestrade said, barely fighting back laughter as he leaned in the kitchen door. “She could be calling you Gawain.”

Both mother and son turned to give him a look that suggested he was four cards short of a five-card straight. “What?” Mummy asked, archly. “What _are_ you talking about DI Lestrade?”

Lestrade gave it up for a lost cause. “Nothing. Carry on.”

Mycroft mashed the hard cooked eggs with special venom, and shot Lestrade a look that suggested that nothing he might say would prove right this evening. Lestrade didn’t care. Getting under Mycroft’s skin had certain recreational payoffs that amused him—and seeing him here was proving educational and funny as hell. Who knew Mycroft Holmes was merely “Mikey” to Mummy, and that he was a well-trained kitchen drudge? He, for one, was very pleased he’d accepted the invitation Sherlock had sent to this barmy Midsummer Night’s feast in the back garden of Mummy and Daddy’s house.

Just seeing Mummy decide Mycroft needed an apron was worth millions. That it was an apron with dancing vegetables printed on it only added to the perfection of the moment.

Janine, who was apparently Sherlock’s sort-of ex, maybe, depending on who you asked and how they were reckoning it up, was also having fun. Sherlock seemed unable to decide if he should glare at her, pine over her, or accidentally slip into easy banter with her…or he was unsure until she started talking to his father. Janine and Father Holmes proved to have a certain rapport, and once they started flirting and laughing Sherlock settled in for one solid disapproving glower at both of them. Molly was glaring daggers at all three of them. John was scowling at all four of them. Mrs. Hudson was clucking at all five of them and saying they were all terrible, just terrible, and to behave! It was like a children’s story chaining up from a woman who swallowed a fly to an entire menagerie, all bleating and baying and making a ruckus.

Yes, Greg thought, it was well worth the time. Leaning there in the doorway of the kitchen he could see Mummy and Mycroft and Mary working on food. He could look out the window at Father and Janine and Sherlock and Molly and John. And all the while he could drink good ale and listen to music…the most hotly contested element of the party, with what seemed to be everyone struggling for control of the stereo.

Mummy liked Bach when she was classical and Peter Gabriel when she was modern.

Father was solid: Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, Cohen with “Famous Blue Raincoat.”

Mycroft was Sting in pop mode and still Sting in classical: he fought like a banshee to play Songs from the Labyrinth, while everyone else howled it was too gloomy for a party. Sherlock was for Chopin in classical mode and death metal anything when in pop mode. He won some Chopin and lost out entirely on the death metal. Molly liked Abba. Mary liked Led Zeppelin. John seconded Sherlock on the death metal, but admitted it wasn’t the right pick for this party, and suggested Tracy Chapman. Mrs. Hudson like disco. Janine said she liked anything, but that if it had a sweet sound and a sarky edge, she was twice as happy, thanks.

Lestrade kept his mouth shut, and laughed at them all.

Mummy herded Mycroft and Mary out with her to set up the table, then led them back to collect the food. Lestrade turned on the charm to the “gallant” setting, and helped.

The party was, in his opinion, a success. Contrary to Mycroft’s ongoing weather forecast, the sky was clear, the temperature actually pleasant, and the midge count quite low, all considered. The food was simple and good, with plenty of sandwiches and crisps.

“So good to have everyone here,” Mummy said, beaming. “Sherlock, you must come down more often.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and murmured, “Yes, you must. London’s willing to spread the wealth. We’ll consider you on loan to Suffolk.”

He was rewarded with a solid gold pout from Sherlock, a crow of laughter from Janine, and a frown from Molly. Mummy smacked his shoulder.

“Mikey, I told you, behave. We’re having fun.”

Mycroft snorted and arched his brows. “We are? I hadn’t noticed it so much, myself.”

“Of course we’re having fun,” Mummy assured him. “Look at Sherlock, happy as a clam.”

Which, Lestrade thought, left one wondering if happy clams pouted and furrowed their brows quite so dramatically. But, hey—clams. Who knew with clams? He was willing to assume Mummy knew best.

Janine continued to flirt with Father, who blushed and held his own just barely. Mummy looked on fondly, apparently sure enough of her standing with Father to enjoy watching Janine tease him to bits, rather than growing defensive. Her smile was fond and indulgent, not false and watchful.

Father Holmes was, Lestrade thought, what women often called a “pet.” Sweet as honey and delighted with anyone who gave him a smile and a bit of attention. Easy to please, and easily pleasing. Lestrade, looking at him, thought he was, perhaps, not a bad role model to emulate—and wondered if he’d let Lestrade adopt him. After all, Mycroft and Sherlock were neither of them seeming to match themselves to their long-legged father’s style or manner: they both seemed more akin to their tart, brilliant, slightly scatty mum. There was an obvious natural niche for Lestrade!

Mummy had decided Lestrade was all right. Better than when Sherlock had brought that dreadful Wiggins who’d drugged them all, anyway. A bad influence on Sherlock, and better that he wasn’t here this time or she’d never trust the sangria.

Lestrade, having seen what Mummy Holmes put in sangria, wasn’t sure Wiggins could make it any more dangerous. Mummy had a hearty approach to sangria…including an apparent belief that red wine needed fortification in the form of bounteous glasses of brandy.

You could light the pitcher if you’d a mind… Lestrade made sure to wait half an hour after drinking a glass before slipping out to the front yard to sneak a smoke. Too much chance of setting himself on fire if he’d gone sooner. The brandy was potent.

“Thought you’d quit,” Sherlock said, leaning against the front gate with his own cigarette.

“Trying,” Lestrade said.

“So this is the bit where you surrender to become victorious?”

“Yeah, smart-arse. And what about you, yeah? Thought you were using patches last week.”

“Still am.” Sherlock tucked his fag in his mouth, unbuttoned a cuff, and rolled up his sleeve to display three patches. “I’d wear more, but John starts panicking if I go higher than three…”

“How is John? Haven’t talked to him yet tonight.”

“Getting used to the baby. I told him her middle name should be ‘danger.’ Make him feel right at home that way.”

Lestrade laughed, and sucked down smoke. There was laughter from the back garden, and Mummy’s voice carried, saying, “Now, Father…”

Janine’s voice cut through, her Irish vowels and lilting inflections unmistakable. “No, no, I want to see. Please?”

“Do you mind, dear?” Father asked, apparently getting Mummy’s clearance, as she chuckled and said, “Oh, very well. It’s been so long. Go for it, love.”

There was a twitter of voices again. Before Lestrade could work out what was happening, Mycroft came barreling back, fishing in his own pockets and looking like he’d just been informed of the immanent start of WWIII with England as ground zero. “Oh, my God. I knew this entire thing was a bad idea. What made you bring that madwoman, Sherlock?”

“I didn’t bring her, John and Mary did. What’s she done, now?”

Mycroft cringed, and lit a cigarette. “Zorba.”

Sherlock whined. “No.”

“Yes. Zorba.”

“Oh, God. I’m going to have to flee the country and change my name again.”

“You? They’re going to make me chief accountant to the janitorial staff if anyone hears of this. It’s…indecent, that’s what it is!”

“What?” Lestrade asked. “What are you two on about, eh?”

Both Holmes boys poured contempt over Lestrade with gazes compounded of ice water and indignation.

“Father,” Sherlock said.

“Dancing,” Mycroft chimed in.

“Greek dancing,” both boys said, and moaned. From the back yard came the sound of Greek music.

Lestrade grinned. “No. You mean it?”

They glared harder. Sherlock stamped out his cigarette, and promptly lit another. Mycroft took too deep a drag off his and coughed, but dragged again.

A slow clap had stared in the back, and there was the cooing, dovelike sound of happy women.

Lestrade chuckled, and said, “Well, I’m back to dinner then. Leave you two blokes to guard the front gate, yeah?” He scooted around the side, and into the back.

The women and John had formed a loose half-circle around the grassy lawn. Everyone was clapping rhythm, as Father Holmes danced a stately Greek vining step: back, over, around, over, forward, over, behind, over. He stood tall, his shock of silver-white hair splendid in the growing twilight, eyes glowing, arms out. There was, Lestrade thought, a glorious, lively dignity to the man as he danced. He shone like a hero out of legend in his wife’s eyes—made wonderful by her obvious affection. Mrs. Hudson chirped and smiled her approval. Molly and Mary nodded in time. John had relaxed.

Lestrade moved next to Janine, who was sitting hip-hooked on a bit of stone wall, minding the laptop providing the music from _Zorba the Greek_. “He’s a pip, that one, isn’t he?” she said with a smile. “Fine old fella, he is. Lookit him, won’t you? Least now I know where Sherl got it.”

Lestrade nodded. “He’s having a time, isn’t he?”

“That he is. Shame the boys won’t join ‘im, isn’t it?” she asked. “Sherl could. If he’d deign to. Mikey? Not so sure. Stiff as a stick, that one. But a grand old man like that? He deserves sons to dance with ‘im.”

Lestrade smiled. “Got an idea. Maybe. What do you think?” He shouldered past her and started searching Youtube till he found what he wanted. He turned it to her. “Know it?”

“Our man Cohen? Yeah. I know that one.”

“Rhythm’s same more or less, isn’t it?”

“’Tis.” She grinned. “And?”

Lestrade smiled. “And a vine step’s easy. And I know how to line dance, myself.”

“Oooh, you bad man, you,” she said, laughing. “Yes. Go for it. I’ll see if I can get John to play.”

“You do that,” Lestrade said. “And see if you can get Father signed on before anyone talks him out of it.”

“Eh, they’re lovin’ him,” she said. “They’ll give him another dance, come time. You just be ready, yeah?”

He nodded, and the two exchanged mischievous glances. Janine left with a quick nod, and started circling the gathering, tossing a whisper to Mary, who leaned over and tagged Mrs. Hudson, who began whispering to Molly, while Janine when on to sweet-talk both Mummy and John.

Lestrade made sure he had “Dance Me To The End of Love” ready to cue.

Zorba played out, and Father grinned and bowed, as the circle clapped gleefully.

“Want to try another with me,” Lestrade asked, using his easiest, most hostage-negotiation relaxed voice. “Been a long time since I danced.”

Father grinned at him. “Love to. What do you have in mind? We can always do Zorba again if you like.”

“No. Got something else for you. You’ll like it if you don’t already know it,” Lestrade said. He glanced at Janine. “You’ll cue it for us once I’m ready?”

“Sure thing. Get your fine self out there.”

“Flirt.”

“Glad you noticed.”

He grinned at her sass, then went out to join Father Holmes. He moved to stand a rough two or three feet from him, each facing forward. He looked at Father. “It should match your steps. I’ll follow. Yes?”

Father Holmes was glowing, his smile sweet and innocent. “Yes!”

Lestrade nodded at Janine. She nodded back, and the music started. Within seconds Mary Watson started a slow, soft clap to match the rustic beat of the backup music.

Father Holmes moved, steady and slow. Back, over, around, over. Forward, over, behind, over. A steady chaining motion forming a rough square. Lestrade matched him. Both men stood tall and relaxed, arms oustretched, chests up, heads high.

The voices started, sweet and easy, intense without being fraught.

_Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin. Dance me through the panic till I’m safely gathered in. Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove—Dance me to the end of love.”_

Father Holmes risked a slight turn of his head, eyes wide. “Cohen?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh!”

“Know it?”

“Yes. Never though to actually dance to it!”

“Nice, ennit?”

Father Holmes beamed. “Oh, lovely!”

The continued. Back, over, around, over. Forward, over, behind, over. Father Holmes began a slow, stately turn as he danced the square pattern. Lestrade caught the motion, and mirrored, both of them performing a steady, easy circle as they paced it out.

“Like dancing life, yeah?” Lestrade murmured.

“Yeah,” Father Holmes said.

As they completed the turn, Lestrade saw two faces peering around the brick building, pale in the dusk and stunned.

John Watson coughed. “There room for another up there? Did some of this with the locals in Afghanistan. Not so different.”

“Plenty of room!” Father Holmes crowed. “Plenty of room!”

John slipped forward and found a spot beside Lestrade. He came to perfect posture and military bearing, a warrior king ready to dance the old, old steps. He waited, caught the beat, and then there were three of them.

“Loveliest thing I ever saw,” Mrs. Hudson crooned. “Oh, my. Haven’t felt like this in years! Does something to you, doesn’t it?”

“Nothin’ like watching fine men show just how fine they are,” Janine purred. “Fine, fine figures of men they are, too.”

Lestrade grinned, feeling both his companions join him in standing just that fraction of an inch taller, their chests puffed just a tiny bit more. If there was nothing like handsome men dancing, there was also nothing like fine women piling on the praise.

By the building two brothers were jabbing each other with sharp elbows and hissing something. Lestrade fought back a chuckle.

Sherlock’s nose went up in the air, and he swept dramatically through the ring of women to join his father and friends. He tried to hog center stage. Lestrade wouldn’t let him, indicating a spot at the far side of his father. The line shifted, dressed itself, and made room.

Back, over, around, over. Forward, over, behind, over. Sherlock, this time, initiated a slow, steady turn, and the line swung it around, all pivoting, all pacing it through.

Then there was a fifth dancer—tallest of all, his jacket and waistcoat left behind, his braces showing bold against a white shirt unexpectedly short a tie and open at the neck. Mycroft, moving like time itself, steady as a rock.

_Dance me with your beauty…_

_Dance me to the end of love…_

The instrumental carried them long enough to close with grace.

All five stood together. The women had long since stopped clapping.

“A lovely thing, a man dancing with his boys,” Janine murmured again. “A fine, fine thing. Nothing like seeing five fine men dancing. Beautiful, it is. Just beautiful.”

No one argued, not even a Holmes.

To hear the music, try [Dance Me To The End of Love](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IEVow6kr5nI)


End file.
